To Catch a King (16 page)

He pulled on a bell chain. After a while, a small gate opened. It closed instantly, a bolt was withdrawn, and the door opened. A small, dark-haired man in white tuxedo stood back to let him in.

“Senhor Joe—a pleasure,” he said in Portuguese.

“Hello, Tomas.”

Jackson walked through into an enclosed courtyard, floored with Moorish tiles. A fountain played in the center. He followed Tomas across and through an archway into a comfortable little bar.

There were a number of small tables, and the girls sitting at them waiting for customers lived up to the elegant atmosphere. They were simply beautiful women, elegantly dressed.

“I heard there was a big game on tonight in number four.”

Tomas nodded. “Stud poker.”

“Then Major Frear must be sitting in on it, sweating as usual.”

“Yes—for two hours now.”

“Tell him I'd like to see him.”

“He won't like it, Senhor Joe. I believe he's heavily into a winning streak.”

“I'll be on the terrace.” Jackson said. “If he's not down in five minutes, I'll come and get him.”

Tomas shrugged and went out. Jackson said to the blonde girl behind the bar, “Champagne for the ladies and bring me the usual.”

He opened the French windows and went outside. The vine-covered terrace offered a spectacular view of the river, lights gleaming down there in the darkness below the Alfama rooftops. The bar girl brought him brandy and soda with crushed ice in a heavy crystal glass, and he leaned on the balcony, wondering suddenly what he was doing here.

Joe Jackson was thirty years of age. Son of a Methodist minister, the greatest influence on his life had been his mother's brother, Grant Hayward, who'd flown with the Lafayette Escadrille in France during the First World War. The boy had been raised on talk of Spads and Fokkers, and his heroes were Von Richtofen, Rickenbacker, Bishop, and Mannock.

By the age of twelve, he knew that you never crossed the line alone under ten thousand feet and watched the sun constantly. He first soloed at sixteen, thanks to his uncle's weekend lessons, and disappointed his father at nineteen by dropping out of Harvard after one year and joining the Air Corps.

He had trained as a fighter pilot, but the discipline of service life irked him, and in 1933 he had resigned and taken a job flying mail in Brazil.

For a while he had worked out of Djibouti in French Somaliland, ferrying arms to Addis Ababa during Mussolini's Ethiopian campaign, flying Dakotas over some of the worst country in the world.

And then Spain, where he had at last been able to put into operation those lessons learned at Uncle Grant's knee all those years before. The only snag had been that, in his case, he'd been given a Bristol fighter to fly, a biplane of First World War vintage: an excellent aircraft in its day, but the German pilots of the Condor Legion had the new Messerschmitt Bf-109s.

He shot down a 109, an Arado biplane, and three Fiat fighters, a score of five, which officially made him an ace, before he was blasted out of the sky over Barcelona one fine April morning by the German ace, Werner Molders.

Afterward, because of the acute shortage of aircraft in the closing stages of the war, he had served on the ground as adjutant to Frank Ryan, the great I.R.A. leader, who was at that time acting brigadier in the Abraham Lincoln Brigade. He had missed the final debacle of the Civil War, thanks to a bullet in the chest, which had brought him finally to Lisbon to convalesce.

He had stayed and prospered. Stayed longer than he had stayed anywhere before. There were mornings he watched the Clipper take off from the Tagus, America its eventual destination, and wished with all his heart that he was on board, but by the evening …

There was a quick step behind, and he turned as Frear came in. He wore a crumpled white linen suit and a Guards tie. His hair and mustache were snow white, and he seemed at least sixty when, to Jackson's knowledge, he was ten years younger. Just now he also looked petulant and annoyed.

“What in the hell is this all about, Joseph? I'm in the middle of the best run I've had in months, and I don't like being taken away from it, I can tell you.”

Frear was a compulsive gambler, his sole vice. He was also an agent for MI-6, that branch of the British Secret Service concerned with espionage in foreign countries.

Jackson said, “The Duke of Windsor. Were you aware that the Germans have more than a passing interest in him?”

“Good God, Joseph, is that all? Rumors flying around Lisbon ever since His Royal Highness arrived. Load of cobblers. If that's the best you can do, I'll get back to my game.”

“Suit yourself,” Jackson said. “Only earlier tonight I ran into a young woman just in from Berlin who had something rather more concrete to offer.”

Frear came back. “Name of Winter? Hannah Winter?”

“That's right.”

Frear sighed, turned, and called, “A large Scotch and soda, sweetheart, and the same again for Mr. Jackson.”

Jackson said, “How did you know?”

“My dear Joseph, I pay a certain lieutenant of police at General Headquarters a handsome weekly stipend to phone me at precisely nine o'clock each evening to convey any information worth having concerning the day's events. This evening he tells me that top of the list on every police blotter in Lisbon is a young German woman named Hannah Winter, wanted for murder in Berlin. Extradition warrant served apparently.”

“American,” Jackson said. “Not German—that's if you're interested. If you call rubbing out three Gestapo hit men murder, then she's certainly guilty of that, but that isn't the reason they've chased her across Europe to Lisbon. It's because a man called Walter Schellenberg's in town, and she knows why.”

Frear's smile stayed firmly in place, but the expression in his eyes had changed. The bar girl brought the drinks on a tray, turned, and went out again.

“Lovely arse on her, that girl.” Frear sipped his Scotch. “Walter Schellenberg here? I mean actually here? You sure, old boy?”

“Why, do you know him?”

“Yes, I think you could say that. All right, Joseph, tell me what the young lady has to say.”

11

W
inston Churchill became Prime Minister on May 10, 1940, and continued for some weeks to live and work at Admiralty House in the rooms he had occupied as First Lord of the Admiralty.

That evening, a meeting with the Joint Chiefs of Staff, concerned with what at that time seemed the imminent possibility of a German invasion, had dragged on until after midnight. He had retired shortly after, falling asleep instantly, a trick learned the hard way during the numerous campaigns of his youth.

He was awakened at 2 a.m. by Alexander Cadogan, Head of the Foreign Office.

“Now what?” the Prime Minister demanded, adding with a touch of that black humor for which he was famous, “Don't tell me, let me guess. Eight thousand Fallschirmjager of the Seventh Fliegerdivision have dropped around Hythe and Dymchurch and secured a bridgehead. I can conceive of no other reason why you should wake me at this hour.”

“No, Prime Minister, but two signals have been received from Lisbon from our MI-6 station in the city. They have in their employ a double agent, code name Hamlet, who also works for the Abwehr. The second signal would seem to confirm his story.”

The Prime Minister propped himself up against the pillows and lit a cigar, then held out his hand for the signals. He read them, then sat there in silence for quite some time.

“Prime Minister?” Cadogan said finally. “What do you think?”

“The suggestion that His Royal Highness might actually deal with our enemies, I treat with the contempt it deserves. I have known him all his life and he is a man of finest honor.” Here Churchill scowled. “Indeed, if I may say so, in that fact is to be found the cause of much of his trouble during that most distressing period of his life.”

“But the other aspect, Prime Minister? The possibility of his abduction? General Schellenberg's presence in Lisbon can only constitute the gravest of threats.”

“The Portuguese dictator, Salazar, may lean more in his political sympathies toward the Nazis than to ourselves, but he could never tolerate such an overt act of aggression on his own soil. The international repercussions would be tremendous.”

“Then what do we do?”

“The British Ambassador must make our fears plain at the highest level possible in the Portuguese Government. Not officially, but informally, I think that's the way to play it at the moment. He must also inform His Royal Highness of the situation.”

“And then?”

“We pack him off to the Bahamas as soon as possible. Find out the first available boat, and get hold of Walter Monckton for me.”

Walter Monckton, roused from his bed, arrived at Admiralty House just after 3 a.m. and was shown straight in to the Prime Minister.

Walter Turner Monckton was of medium height with thinning hair and thick glasses. A brilliant barrister and friend of the Duke of Windsor when they were at Oxford together, he had been his most valued aide during the Abdication Crisis. In the years that followed, he had remained the British Government's emissary to the Duke in time of need. He was at the present moment Director General of the Ministry of Information.

“Walter,” the Prime Minister said. “I want you to go to Lisbon as soon as a flight may be arranged. Our understanding is that there is an American ship leaving for Bermuda on the first of August. I wish you to use your best offices to see that His Royal Highness and the Duchess are on board.”

“And if he will not, Prime Minister?”

“He must, Walter. Look at these signals and judge for yourself.”

Monckton read them through, his face calm as always, then handed them back.

“You will do this for me, Walter?”

“Of course, Prime Minister.” Monckton hesitated. “Is His Majesty aware of the situation?”

“Not at the moment, and I see no cause to alarm him unnecessarily, when this whole thing may well be over and done with by the end of the week, and the Duke out of harm's way.”

“As you say.”

“Good. I leave it to you then, Walter. Cadogan will make the necessary arrangements.”

Churchill turned his head into the pillow, closed his eyes, and was instantly asleep again.

“Marvelous, Sturmbannführer,” Schellenberg said. “Allow me to congratulate you on what one can only describe as a quite brilliant achievement.”

He was standing in the surgery of the doctor's clinic at the Legation watching while Kleiber lay back on the operating table, stripped to the waist.

“He's lucky,” the doctor said. “Straight through the forearm and missed the bone by a hairsbreadth. You'll need a sling for at least a week, though.”

He inserted three stitches very quickly, and sweat sprang to Kleiber's forehead. Sindermann stood by the door, wearing a pair of overalls the porter had found him.

“My God, and there are those who believe we can actually win the war.”

Kleiber said, between clenched teeth, “May I ask the Brigadeführer's intentions regarding the Winter girl? She may well still be with the man who came to her aid from this Bar American. If the police were to…”

“Oh, I see, you would like me to bring the Portuguese police into this matter officially? You would prefer to bring charges, is that it, Kleiber? It would sound nice in your daily report to the Reichsführer. How you finally cornered Hannah Winter on a wharf in Lisbon with America next stop, only you lost her again to a man who shot you in the arm and tossed that great ape in the corner there into the harbor.”

Kleiber glared up at him, and Schellenberg said, “No, Kleiber, I think the less the police know about this particular incident, the better for all concerned. I'll see you both in the morning.”

He went out and found his way to Egger's office. “Do you wish me to notify the police about this affair, General?” Egger asked.

“No, we'll keep it to ourselves. This Joe Jackson's American Bar—do you know it?”

“Everyone knows Joe Jackson's, General, the best night club in Lisbon. Jackson is an American who fought for the International Brigade in Spain and flew against the Condor Legion.”

“A Communist?”

“Good heavens, no. I don't think he's anything.”

“Interesting. One more thing. Who is the Security Police officer with particular responsibility for the welfare of the Duke of Windsor?”

“I'm not sure. The overall commander of the Security Police is Colonel Fernandes da Cunha.”

“Is he on our side?”

Egger leaned back in his chair and considered the point. “Colonel da Cunha is a first-class policeman. One of the best I have ever known. In my opinion, I think he will follow his orders to the letter.”

“Whatever those orders might be?”

“Exactly.”

“Then it would appear we may well have to look a little further down the scale if we are to catch the right kind of corruption.” Schellenberg glanced at his watch. “Only three o'clock. I can actually have four hours' sleep before it's time to get up.”

He went out. Egger cleared his desk, then took down his coat. As he approached the door it opened and Kleiber came in. His face was very pale and his right arm was in a sling. Sindermann was behind him.

“Sturmbannführer, you should be in bed,” Egger said.

“Never mind that now,” Kleiber told him. “I want to know what Schellenberg was discussing with you just now.”

“I can't possibly reveal that. It's a matter of confidence.”

With some difficulty, Kleiber took out his wallet with his left hand and extracted Himmler's letter of authority.

“There,” he said. “I act in the name of Reichsführer Himmler himself. Perhaps you would prefer me to place a call to Berlin now to inform him of your lack of desire to co-operate in this matter?”

“No—no, of course not,” said Egger, his stomach contracting at the very idea. “It was just that I hadn't fully appreciated the situation. In what way can I be of service?”

Joe Jackson ran the Mercedes in to the porch at the rear of the club, then walked back along the wharf to the stage door. As he approached, a man in a dark slouch hat and leather trench coat moved out of the shadows.